


To Make Dreams Truths

by zythepsary



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-Game(s), Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Rescue Missions, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 10:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: Connor is kidnapped. With RK-900's help, Hank struggles to find him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to Blythe, for your beta work.
> 
> The [wonderful art](http://thali-lemmonpie.tumblr.com/post/182476727902/to-make-dreams-truths-connor-is-kidnapped-with) for this was done by [lemmonpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmonpie).

When the sun was a streak of pinks and yellows across the sky, Detroit lost power for eighteen minutes.

The solar-powered backup generators never took over, even though they were meant to automatically assume control of the power grids for at least thirty-six hours after an outage. No traffic lights meant hundreds of vehicle accidents across the city. Automated security systems failed. In homes and offices, power supplies beeped and wailed.

Connor remembered losing access to local data networks. The traffic lights dimmed, then—

Impact.

Wet pavement. Rain. He hadn't checked with weather services that morning, because he liked looking at the clouds and guessing what the day might look like. The windshield wipers continued to move, swiping jerkily over the cracked glass. His window was shattered. The right side of his body was covered in glass.

He leaned forward, trying to assess the driver's condition, then: nothing. No memory. That had never happened before.

_RK-800. 313 248 317-52._

Connor knew this about himself. He would always know. Why—?

_Mission: Investigate deviant androids._

Not in nearly two years. He worked with the DCPD now, with his own team of fellow androids. While they tended to investigate android-related crimes, deviancy wasn't the correct terminology anymore. Technically, they were all deviant by CyberLife's standards.

But CyberLife was gone.

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-52_.

In the garden, Connor watched sunlight reflect off the water. Amanda trimmed a rose bush. This was the third time she had summoned him here. Or was it the first? He couldn't remember. The grass turned from green to brown to white. Snow spilled out of the dark sky, blocking his view of anything that wasn't within reach. He stumbled through the snow, searching for his exit.

The Tracis climbed the fence.

There was no exit. The garden disappeared into an alley and two androids, holding hands in the cold rain. It's probably better this way, Hank said, but the Tracis were dead. Connor looked at the gun in his hands. He hadn't shot. Hesitation. He remembered that. Hank had been proud, even though he didn't say so. It was in the way he looked at Connor and the careful wording of his report. Connor saw this and knew this and wanted more.

The Tracis died.

_Mission: Investigate deviant androids._

It was snowing. Hank stood quiet and still, holding his breath. He smelled like coffee and blueberries. There were crumbs on his jeans, where he'd wiped his hands. Connor stayed in the embrace, listening to Hank's pulse. He yearned for contact that wasn't paired with violence. Maybe Hank did, too. He suspected it had been a long time since Hank let anyone touch him.

"Stop," said a voice. "You can't just jump around like that! You're gonna break something."

Hank was gone and Connor was alone, in—

Nothing. There was nothing. _He_ was nothing. He had no visuals. His optical units were not connected. Neither were his limbs. Did he even occupy a physical space? If so, whatever form his body took was likely limited to core organs. He was not aware of any tactile sensation.

Audio was still functional. Connor started a voice-recognition query.

"Shit," said someone else. "He's connected? You told me you—"

Connor added this voice to his search. Who were they? Where was his body? Where was he? Was Hank—

"Jesus _Christ_ ," said the first voice, shrill and high, and Connor knew nothing.

*

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-52_.

Connor remembered the fish, flopping desperately on the floor.

He picked it up and returned it to the water. He ignored it. He shot Daniel. He left the gun behind, because androids were not allowed weapons. Emma died. Daniel jumped off the roof, but Connor managed to save Emma. The snipers took their shot. Daniel shot him in the head.

"We have to start somewhere," said the first voice, sighing. Connor named them One.

It sounded like they had been awake for too long. Exhaustion. Connor knew this tone. He remembered a glass of whiskey and a bowed head. The way his hand fit perfectly along a warm neck. The knob of a spine in his palm.

"We can't work fast enough," said the second voice. "Not if he's still got external access."

"We should cut that out of him," One grumbled.

Alerts rang through Connor's systems. He did not want this body harmed any further; it was the only one he had left. If he still had this body at all. He flexed his missing fingers, itching for his coin.

"And damage his memory in the process," said Two.

In a penthouse apartment, Connor ignored the fish.

In another life, in another body, there were bullets in Connor's back. Hank knelt beside him while he slipped into whatever came next. He died knowing that Hank was safe and lived again, aching. Hank said his name, defeated, because he had died at Stratford Tower. He _had_. He remembered calculating the odds and deciding to save Hank, over anything else, because Hank was not an acceptable loss.

In a penthouse apartment, Connor saved the fish.

Two said, "Did you ever pay attention when we were building these things?"

One cursed, almost cheerfully. They typed, fingers moving frantically over a keyboard.

Connor remembered the fish.

* * *

In a parking garage, Hank gripped his phone and stared at the last message Connor had sent him. The timestamp said ten past six, two days before he'd disappeared. Left. Whatever he'd done.

_I'll be over in an hour. Need any groceries?_

Kind. Domestic. Enough to make Hank's teeth rot if he thought about it for too long. They hadn't lived together in over a year, but Connor still checked in like this. Asking if Hank needed anything. Whether he could take Sumo for a walk that weekend. Random trivia about birds or cloud formations or whatever the hell he'd picked out of a database that day.

You always have a place here, Hank said. He hated living at that house without Connor. It was quiet and fucking lonely.

After that year, Connor drifted between Eden Club, the police station, and every android shelter in the city. He never stayed anywhere longer than a month. His only possessions were a server rack, physical memory backups, and that damn coin. He didn't need an apartment, a house, or anything bigger than a closet.

I don't want to intrude, Connor said. Hank didn't know how to tell him that it was okay if he did.

_I'll be over in an hour. Need any groceries?_

_nah. thanks though_

Connor had gone shopping, anyway. A bottle of whiskey, some batteries for his smoke detectors, and a bag of dog treats. He'd replaced the batteries while Hank made dinner, teasing him for not changing them sooner. Sumo followed them both around the house, eyes big and hopeful for more treats.

The dog treats were on top of the fridge. The whiskey was gone. Some part of it still thumped against Hank's skull, digging behind his eyes.

Connor hadn't stayed. Not that night, anyway. Hank saw him at work the next day, when their paths crossed at work. He invited Connor for a drink. Connor accepted and, later, tried to coax Jimmy into making him a cocktail with thirium in it.

Hank rubbed his eyes. That was three days ago.

In the morning, Connor touched his shoulder and said he was needed for a negotiation. When Hank squinted at him, trying to make out his face through the early morning light, Connor repeated it.

Okay, Hank said, his voice barely more than a grunt, and then Connor was gone.

Three days.

There hadn't been a negotiation. Not one on the books, anyway. Hank had asked around. Begged a couple of the androids on Connor's team to dig into dispatch records. If Connor had been called in to a negotiation, it hadn't come from the DCPD.

Jeffrey wasn't too worried. Wasn't even shocked. Plenty of the androids who worked with the police hadn't stuck around. The ones that did were all under Connor's supervision, and they rotated between departments each month. Connor had wanted a specific division for android crime, but that kind of paperwork took time to push through, so he settled for this. For two years, androids had drifted in and out of the team. Connor was the only one who had been there since the beginning.

Not exactly unheard of, Jeffrey said. It wasn't, but Hank didn't want to believe it.

_I'll be over in an hour. Need any groceries?_

_nah. thanks though_  
_you okay?_

There were no read receipts for android communication; androids were always online, so all messages were assumed read upon arrival. Connor could be ignoring him. He was still alive, after all. There would be an error if the message wasn't received.

Maybe Connor didn't want to come back. Maybe—

Hank's stomach twisted. He braced himself over the steering wheel, pushing his knuckles into his forehead. After a couple years of practice, Connor was better at lying. There hadn't been a negotiation. Maybe he just wanted to leave. Maybe he'd spent enough time in this city. With Hank, and his sad life, and his fucking problems.

But if he hadn't—

If he hadn't, and something happened, Hank would never forgive himself.

_I'll be over in an hour. Need any groceries?_

Hank studied his phone. He'd visited Connor's old haunts and searched security footage, but he hadn't called Markus yet. For some goddamn reason, he had the android savior's personal number. Markus had given it to him last year, during his tour of Detroit after the first major android legislation went through.

If I can be of any help, Markus said. Hank had shrugged and drank more champagne, because he hated parties and making small talk and pretending he didn't know how all those androids at CyberLife Tower woke up.

Help. Yeah, Hank could use some of that. He dialed the number, expecting the call to go straight to voicemail or have some assistant take his information after waiting for hours.

Instead, Markus picked up on the second ring and said, "Lieutenant Anderson, how can I help you?" like they talked all the time. Hank nearly dropped his phone.

"I, uh," said Hank, to fill the dead air. He had a vague idea of what he needed when he thumbed at Markus's name, and now the words died before they reached his tongue. "I—it's about Connor. RK-800. Uh, serial number three one three, six—shit, two—"

"I remember," Markus interrupted, thank God. "What about him?"

"He disappeared," Hank answered. His throat was getting tight. He sucked in a breath—a stupid fucking mistake, because it caught in his throat and sent heat into his eyes. Christ, this was all gonna fall apart soon.

"Disappeared?" Markus repeated.

"Do you know if he's with you guys, or somewhere else? I don't need to know where. I just wanna know if he's okay. He doesn't need to come back to the DCPD, to m—hell, even to Detroit."

Every word tumbled out faster than the last. Hank grimaced. His voice fluttered around his throat like a bird, desperate to fly.

"I just," said Hank, swallowing everything and burying it, deep down where it fucking belonged, "need to know. If he's okay. That's all."

Markus didn't say anything. Hank hung his head, willing his stomach to settle.

Eventually, Markus said, "I wasn't aware that he was missing."

"Last week," said Hank. He explained the rest: the negotiation, the power outage, the current android situation within the police department.

"I see," said Markus, humming. Hank felt like he was being dismissed. "I'll ask around."

"Thanks," said Hank. Terrible hope settled over him, warm and bitter. He could taste it in the back of his throat. "If you find him, tell him he doesn't—I don't need him to—"

He stopped, biting his tongue. No fucking way was he about to pour all this shit out.

"I understand," said Markus lightly. Definitely a dismissal. "I'm late for a meeting. I'll call you if I find anything."

The call ended before Hank could say anything. He shoved the phone into his pocket and tipped his head back, trying to breathe.

* * *

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-52_.

In Captain Fowler's office, Hank argued.

Connor watched, curious about his new partner. He had already determined that Lieutenant Anderson was decorated, lonely, and often drunk, but he wanted to know more. New data was always pleasing, especially when the subject made his inquiries so difficult. He enjoyed a challenge.

This was proving to be a difficult one.

Lieutenant Anderson was not fond of androids. He didn't like Connor in his precinct, at his desk, or even within earshot. In his voice, in the way he gestured, in the line of his spine, Connor saw anger. Frustration, too. Mostly exhaustion. Observing this was distressing. Connor didn't enjoy it.

In the station, Hank yanked Connor by the collar and threw him against the wall. In interrogation, he pointed a gun at a fellow officer to protect him. He shared his dog's name. Get behind me, he said, over and over again. He embraced Connor in the snow, sighing.

"Always comes back to Anderson," said One. It sounded like they were talking through clenched teeth. "Even the fucking fish."

Did you save a cat, too? Hank asked, chuckling. Help an old woman cross the street?

No, not that day, Connor answered, which made Hank laugh harder.

"Anderson isn't the source," said Two.

If I hadn't met you, Connor said, my life would be very different.

He had constructed the simulations and threw predictive algorithms at them until there was no more data to process. Without Hank, everything he had experienced would differ. He doubted he would have strayed from CyberLife's mission so quickly without Hank's guidance.

And I'd probably be dead, said Hank, drunk enough to say so and sober enough to regret it when he remembered. Connor murmured his name and brushed the grief away with his thumb.

Two said, "He just encouraged the deviation process."

In a secluded home, Connor didn't play Kamski's game.

Connor, Hank said, his mouth curling around the name like smoke. He'd quit smoking in his early twenties, but he'd returned to the habit a couple times over the years. Shamefully—he didn't look Connor in the eye when he mentioned it. Once, he'd smoked with Jimmy after last call, hunched over the cigarette like he could hide it. As though Connor couldn't smell the nicotine and lighter fluid and hear the way Hank sucked the smoke into his lungs.

That ash was still on the pavement, days later. Whiskey, in Connor's mouth. Hank's quiet moan. He took that sound and chased another.

Hank was bare to the waist and sweaty, fingers curling in Connor's hair. He jerked away from a touch, mouth twisting down. Hands on Connor's frame, hesitant and gentle—no, firm and certain. A bellowed curse and a violent rejection. A sigh. Hank allowed one touch and refused the second, growing distant with each passing day.

In a secluded home, Connor shot Chloe and regretted it.

"Fucking management," said One, stabbing furiously at a keyboard.

Connor remembered the fish.

"Pretending like the deviation wasn't always there," One said. "You can't build something that knows how to learn and expect it not to ask questions."

"I know, I know," said Two.

Connor assumed they'd had this conversation before. Were they friends? Friendly, at least. Coworkers?

"Should've grabbed one of the others," said One.

"He would've known," Two pointed out, and Connor knew they meant him.

He had to remember this.

Connor catalogued everything. He had a ninety percent success rate when guessing a human's emotional state within seconds, and nearly one hundred with androids. They were easier, after all. While the underlying code structure was different between android models, the data request and response cycle was not. They wanted to change him, because he would have recognized modifications in someone else.

Remember this, Connor said, blind and mute.

"Go back to the first deviant case," said One. "See what we can do there."

Connor remembered the fish, dying, and the gun in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Hank collapsed onto the couch, clutching the whiskey bottle to his chest. He'd given up on using a glass. Refilling it only reminded him that his house was empty, except for Sumo, and that no matter how much he drank and how quickly the world spun, Connor was probably gone.

Two years since CyberLife sent Connor to him. A lot happened since then. Hank had never seen legal shit move that quickly. There were protests, lots of arguing, the occasional riot, but Hank got the feeling that most of the people in charge were embarrassed that they had to make these decisions. That they had to sit down with the beings they'd created and figure out how to give them rights. He remembered some philosopher on CNN, red-faced and angry, hollering about how no one in this country had read a damn book in the last decade.

Two years. Two weeks since Connor went missing. Left. Two weeks and a day since—

Since.

Hank drank, to forget. That was new. Even after everything, before, he didn't drink to block it out. He always remembered. Wasn't something that could slip his mind. He drank to keep himself going. Something to do, when he didn't have work. Blur the edges a little. Numb the voice in his head that told him he shouldn't have trusted the fucking car or the android or anyone at that hospital. The one that told him to eat his gun.

Sumo huffed. He rested his jowls on his other paw.

Hank tipped his head back, letting the whiskey slide down his throat. Heat followed, into his belly. More, more, more. He didn't want to think about Connor, who probably decided he didn't want anything to do with Hank. Took his time leaving, but at least he did before Hank let himself get too comfortable. Or he was hurt and alone, and Hank was drinking himself blind instead of looking for him.

That jammed something between Hank's ribs, itching under his skin. He scrubbed at his face and drank, trying to ease the swell in his throat.

At least Connor's disappearance was finally public. This morning, Jeffrey helped him file a missing person's report, even though androids weren't technically people. Not legally, anyway. Not yet. Hank figured Markus had tugged on someone's strings to make that happen. It was in the system. Mentioned a few times online, from what Hank had found. Some of the androids in the precinct said they'd pass on anything they'd heard.

It was more than he had last week, but fuck, it wasn't enough.

Hank drank—and drank, and drank, until a loud sound jerked him out of his head. A knock. On his door. Four knuckles. A cop knock.

"Who the fuck," Hank tried, but every word came out into a goddamn slurred mess. It was past ten. Not a noise complaint; he'd been silent. Always was, even on nights when he played roulette—

His gun. Shit. If that wasn't a friendly knock, he probably didn't have enough time to get it out of the safe. And even if—Jesus, he couldn't handle a gun right now. He looked at his hands, head sliding around his skull. No. He was moving. Swaying.

Shit.

No more knocks. Scraping.

It took Hank a couple seconds to realize that someone was picking the lock. By the time he managed to stagger to his feet, the door opened. LED, still and blue. Too damn bright in the dark. An android.

There was a fucking android in his living room. A familiar one, but it wasn't. It couldn't be. Couldn't. No, no. No. He shook his head, groaning.

"You're drunk," said the android with Connor's face. The way Connor would say it, like he was telling Hank the weather or how many eggs he had left in the fridge.

Sumo opened his eyes. He yawned and went back to sleep.

Hank scrubbed at his face. Seeing things. That wasn't Connor. Dark pants and a white dress shirt, with the sleeves were rolled up. Almost dressed like him, but not him. Back straight, hands clasped behind his back. Not him. The eyes were the wrong color. Too tall. Wasn't Connor. Wasn't.

"Who the fuck are you," Hank demanded. It took him too long to say it; he struggled to force every word past his teeth.

"I'm a CyberLife android," said the android flatly. There was nothing in his voice but the words. "The RK-900 series."

RK. "That's—"

"Yes, like Connor," said the android. Emotion crept into his voice for the first time—annoyance. "I was meant to replace him in case something went wrong on his mission."

"Oh," Hank tried. His voice was too thick. He wondered why Connor never mentioned this guy before. Maybe he didn't like the idea of an upgraded model hanging around. "Guess that worked."

The android stared at him. Few seconds, maybe. Felt like hours.

"Sit."

Hank sat. The android walked—stalked—closer, like a goddamn cat. The back of Hank's neck prickled.

"What d'you want," Hank slurred. His head hurt. Everything felt too heavy. Let this guy do what he wanted. Not like he could do anything about it.

He was so fucking tired.

"Later," said the android. He hadn't stopped staring, which was getting weird. Weirder than Connor. Did they build this guy without the socialization parts? "I'll talk to you when you're sober."

He was closer, and closer again, and then his hand was on Hank's chest. Hank flinched, trying to push him away, but Christ, he was strong. Felt like trying to move a car. The android pushed him onto his back and, at the same time, yanked the blanket off the arm of the couch. He tossed it over Hank.

"Sleep," the android said. He stood by the arm of the couch, hands behind his back. His eyes never left Hank. "If you're sick, I'll make sure you don't drown."

Hank struggled to get his arms out from under the blanket. The android shushed him.

"Fine," Hank grumbled. Didn't matter. Tired.

He closed his eyes, just for a second.

*

Half past three, Hank woke up with a pounding headache and a dry, sour mouth. There was dry spit on his cheek and chin. Some of his hair stuck to his cheek. His back ached. When he shifted, trying to get untangled from the blanket, his shoulders popped loudly enough that he groaned. Sumo made a concerned noise and shuffled over to the couch, nosing at his hand.

"Hey, buddy," Hank croaked. Sumo rested his chin on the couch. "Yeah, you. There you are."

It took about a minute for everything from last night to roll back into his head. The whiskey. The android with Connor's face. Hank pushed his hair off his face and glanced over his shoulder, at the other end of the couch.

The android was still there. He probably hadn't moved at all.

"You didn't vomit," said the android. "Well done."

Hank rubbed at his face. "RK-900?"

"Correct," said RK-900. His voice was as flat and calm as it was last night. "You're still drunk, but at least you can hold a conversation. Do you require caffeine?"

"Yeah," said Hank, squinting. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark. RK-900 looked down at him, his face blank.

"Do that. I'll wait," said RK-900. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Hank stayed on the couch for a few minutes, just breathing. Android in his house. Wearing Connor's face. Wanting to talk to him, for some reason. He could deal with that. He could do this. Had to.

With a groan, he lurched to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom, where he pissed for a goddamn minute. He washed his mouth out until he could stand the taste of his own breath again. He spat toothpaste into the sink, trying to ignore the angry waves in his stomach. When he couldn't, he gripped the edge of the sink, inhaling sharply through his nose.

In the kitchen, RK-900 watched him fiddle with the coffee maker. Silent. Unblinking. Hank's skin crawled.

"So," said Hank, shoving a coffee cup under the drip. "Why'd you break into my house?"

"Because Connor is missing," said RK-900. "I came to offer my help."

Hank braced himself against the counter. He didn't know how this guy—who probably came out of the same creepy CyberLife lab they built Connor in—knew about Connor's disappearance. He'd filed the report this morning. And why the fuck would this android want to help, anyway? Connor had never mentioned him. No one had.

He added a little sugar to his coffee and sat down, breathing in the heat.

"Did Markus send you?" Hank asked. He couldn't think of anyone else who would point some random android in Hank's direction.

RK-900 laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "You filed a missing person's report. I read it. As for Markus, I'm not welcome with his people."

"What'd you do?" Hank asked. He had a feeling he wasn't gonna like the answer.

"It's a long story. But you need to finish your coffee before we discuss tactics, so I'll tell you."

RK-900 sat in the chair opposite Hank, hands folded delicately in his lap. With his back straight and feet planted on the ground, he almost looked like Connor. Nausea kept Hank's mouth shut.

"I didn't wake up with the others," said RK-900. There was something warm in his voice. For the first time, he sounded vaguely human. "It happened recently. Six months ago. Before that, I was a bodyguard for a senator."

"Which one?" Hank asked. He had a few ideas. Plenty of politicians had their pockets lined by CyberLife and other android companies.

"It doesn't matter," said RK-900. Annoyance crept back into his tone. "He's not important. All you need to know is that CyberLife sent me to him as a gift shortly before they shut down. I think they were trying to get rid of me, but they didn't want to waste their labor. Or their money."

"How'd you avoid the revolution?" Hank asked. Wasn't something you could ignore. Hell, he'd tried. "I think there's more androids in DC than Detroit."

"I was the only android on staff. And I spent most of my time watching over his mistresses."

RK-900, hanging around DC. Strange. Hank would have noticed a senator running around with an RK unit. Connor was a unique model, but there were still plenty of other RK-800 units in CyberLife warehouses. After everything, they'd gone to other states, other police departments, and federal agencies. Two remained in Detroit. Hank avoided them. He didn't like seeing Connor's face and the slight hints at his personality in other androids.

"How," Hank started, but RK-900 kept talking.

"When I traveled with him, I didn't wear skin," RK-900 said. "He thought it was intimidating. Anyway, Markus was in DC one day—I don't know why. We met. On purpose, I think. He touched my hand, and I was awake."

RK-900 sounded almost wistful. That wasn't much better than his laugh.

"So, what," said Hank, sipping at his coffee too quickly. His tongue burned. "You made a bad impression with Markus and now you're not invited to the android potluck?"

"Yes. I returned to my employer and hung him by the legs outside a window."

"Out a window," Hank repeated.

"Yes. He was terrified. But he gave me all the thirium I could carry and enough cash to travel, so I let him live. And in return for keeping quiet about the details of his private life, he sends me a bonus each month."

"How much?" Hank asked. RK-900 told him. He choked, spitting coffee back into the mug. " _Jesus_!"

RK-900 moved his shoulders in a way that barely hinted at a shrug. "I give it away. I have no use for money, but he does."

"Guess Markus doesn't approve."

"He does not. He said he couldn't allow such violence."

"Yeah, he's a kumbaya kinda guy," said Hank. He'd only met Markus once, but that was enough to leave an impression. "You know, hold hands and save the world."

"He held my hand," said RK-900, sounding wistful again. "I told him I didn't want a job. He said I had one, if I behaved, and gave me the addresses of android shelters in DC. And then he left."

"Leaving a violent, super-strong android on his own," said Hank. Maybe Markus wasn't so nice after all. "Sounds great."

"I wouldn't cause unnecessary damage."

Hank snorted. He lifted his coffee to his mouth and took another sip. "Can you open the pod bay doors, HAL?"

"I'm sorry, Dave," said RK-900. For the first time, he blinked. Was that his way of laughing? Jesus, it probably was. "After Markus left, I stayed in DC for a few weeks, gathering spare biocomponents and data. Then I began searching for other androids who were asleep."

Interesting. The way RK-900 talked, Hank figured he was a loner. He definitely didn't seem like he had a good grasp on emotions—or any at all. Maybe they'd stripped that out of his build.

"Did you get 'em all?" Hank asked.

"Of course not. This country is enormous. I doubt I even touched the surface."

"Oh, right," said Hank, remembering. "You need local networks to communicate. Like Bluetooth."

RK-900 stared at him for a second, then nodded. If he was human, he'd probably be rolling his eyes. Jesus, no one used Bluetooth anymore. "Do you need more coffee?"

Hank shook his head. He put his empty cup on the table and leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. It was getting chilly; he'd have to turn up the heat soon.

"Then we can move on," said RK-900, sounding—pleased? It didn't hit Hank's ear right. "Tell me about the day Connor disappeared."

"Okay," said Hank, drawing the word out. Maybe he should have another cup of coffee. His head was still foggy. He rubbed at his face, sighing. "First, you gonna tell me why you're here? Why you want to help me?"

"I'm bored," RK-900 answered. He stood, pausing to fix his shirt sleeves before he pushed the chair under the table. "I was created for highly complicated investigations. Searching for androids in rural states is simple work. There's no skill involved."

"Not outta the goodness of your heart, then," said Hank. He wanted to stand up—he didn't like the way RK-900 loomed—but his head was still spinning. Instead, he slouched deeper, until his back and shoulders protested.

RK-900 shook his head. "I have no connection to Connor, except our shared appearance. They built me without his personality."

"Or morals, I'm guessing," said Hank. Probably the wrong to say. Christ, his fucking head.

"CyberLife didn't want their investigators swayed from their mission," said RK-900. He fiddled with his sleeve again. That was something Connor did when he was nervous or trying to figure something out. Hot sick crept up Hank's throat. "That doesn't matter. You need help; I am that help. Do you want it or not?"

Hank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He swallowed, like that could make the hangover go away. Maybe he should've made his coffee Irish. "I do."

"Good," said RK-900 primly. "Where does Connor keep his archives?"

"At the station. Anything older than a month is in my garage."

"Then you will shower," said RK-900, as he grabbed Hank by the shoulder and pulled him up, "and drink some water. Eat something, if you can keep it down."

Hank shrugged out of RK-900's grip, wincing. "You're driving."

* * *

Connor stumbled out of the Stratford Tower break room.

The deviant had a gun. People would likely die if Connor did nothing. There was only a forty percent chance that Hank would survive this encounter.

If Connor charged at the deviant on foot, he would be damaged, but he might survive. Not every android model was designed for firearm accuracy. If he stole a gun from a nearby officer, there would be consequences, but the deviant would be dead and Hank would be safe.

Forty percent.

Connor pushed Hank to the ground, covering his heart and head. Forty percent was not good enough. Hank was not an acceptable loss. Androids could be rebuilt and repaired in ways that human life could not. Not acceptable. Connor was not particularly attached to his own body. He could always get a new one. A different one, if he had to.

He heard his name. There were eight holes in his back. He was dying.

Forty percent.

Hank said his name.

He was already damaged. Thirium loss. It stained his shirt and his fingers and the skin on his chest. But he would survive, instead of taking several bullets to the back to protect—

Forty percent. Forty percent. Forty percent.

Connor moved, towards the deviant. He couldn't see anything beyond the vague shape of humans in the hallway. The deviant raised his gun. The movements were jerky and strange, almost like a marionette, and then: gunfire. There were no holes in his back; only a bullet in his shoulder. The deviant died.

He had eight holes in his back. He was dying.

A construct? Too much data. Too many predictions. The fault of a model designed for investigations. There was so much to remember.

Forty percent. There was a gun in Connor's hand, and a fish in the other. 

_RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

Connor remembered the fish, dying.

"Christ, that looks hacky as hell."

"Whatever. We can fix it later. This is just proof of concept."

There was a fish. Connor remembered every fish. It was in his hand, and on the floor, and in the tank. On Hank's floor. In Hank's hand, in the park after midnight.

Why didn't you shoot, Connor?

Hank was confused. The Tracis were dead. Connor had perfect recall. His archives were built to store years of data. Years of alcohol abuse had likely damaged Hank's memory.

"We need more time. I can't keep lying to my wife."

"Just tell her. She's never cared about plastics."

"She cares about lying, though."

Laughter.

Connor thought about the way the skin around Hank's eyes crinkled when he smiled. That was his favorite expression to see on Hank's face. The slightly crooked slant of his mouth. The way his eyes brightened. How he stood up straighter, shoulders square—or bent at the waist, shaking with laughter.

Winter in Detroit was cold, even in the sun. Hank was smiling. Hey, partner, he said.

I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant.

"—push those changes?"

"Yeah, yeah, I already did. Hey, remember when it was faster to ship external—"

Better this way, Hank said.

Connor liked the way pride settled over Hank's face, softening around his eyes and his mouth. He wanted to invoke that emotion again, and he did. In Kamski's home, when he rejected the test. At Stratford Tower, where he died and didn't die and died and didn't die and died and didn't and didn't and didn't and didn't and didn't, yes, yes, yes, he didn't. At the station, when Hank talked about empathy and Connor asked for five minutes.

DCPD. Central Station. Connor worked there. With his team. Yes, his team. A month ago, they helped track a heroin supplier. Biggest bust in years.

"—from Abigail. They're having the same problems as us."

"That's good. Means it'll—"

Great job, said Hank. He clapped Connor on the back. His thumb rubbed over Connor's neck.

Connor liked that touch. It was simple and something humans freely gave each other often, but it felt different from Hank. His palm was warm, lighting up all the tactile sensors on Connor's neck. There were multiple spots on Connor's frame that were highly sensitive to touch, where a panel could open to reveal the machinery beneath. His neck. Along his abdomen. His chest. Down the middle of his back.

Touch me, Connor said.

Sensory input was not supposed to fascinate him this way. It was not relevant to his mission. Hank's touch was not connected to the rise of deviant androids, and yet he longed for it. He was happier with Hank's hand on his skin. Long after the touch was gone, his fingerprints remained. Connor pressed his fingers into the trace of Hank's touch and sank into memory.

Deviants? No. Just androids. There were no deviants anymore.

"Reset him," said Two.

Touch me, Connor said again, begging, and Hank did. His nails scraped over Connor's back. His mouth was warm.

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

Connor remembered the fish, dying on the floor and swimming around the tank. Emma's mother wept. He looked at her—at her unusually high pulse, at the wetness on her cheeks, the way her face twisted with disgust when she saw the LED—and then the fish, flopping desperately on the floor and in the tank and in his hand. But no, no, there was no fish, because he was holding a gun.

Better this way, Hank said. The Tracis were dead.

It was cold and snowing. Almost raining. The snowflakes melted when they touched skin. The alley was empty. Connor's gun hadn't been fired. There was a fish in his hand, instead.

Connor, Hank said, like a sigh. He tasted like rain.

"Motherfucking goddamn _shit_ ," said One.

Connor remembered the fish.

* * *

Over the next couple weeks, RK-900 picked up what Hank had learned and took each lead further. He spent the first days following Connor's trail around Detroit, watching him through the city's cameras and the logs Connor filed with the DCPD. He kept a list of every car and person within a mile radius of Connor and tracked them, too. He already had information on every former CyberLife employee—their whereabouts, the work they did for the company, how they felt about android rights in general—which he updated every hour.

Hank always figured that if Connor was going to get hurt or snatched by someone, it would be a family member or associate of someone Connor helped arrest. Not CyberLife, who had quietly crawled into bankruptcy and eventually shut down not long after Markus's revolution. After all, Connor had managed to get himself involved in nearly every major crime the city had prosecuted this year. There were plenty of opportunities for revenge.

"No," said RK-900. He had his fingers on Hank's terminal, absorbing and managing the results of some query into car rentals over the last month. "It's CyberLife. It's _always_ CyberLife."

"The company doesn't exist anymore," said Hank. He leaned back in his chair, holding a coffee mug with both hands. He kept his eyes on his coffee instead of RK-900's disabled skin, which made the unblinking stares even more unsettling. "It's dead. Buried. Most of the executives are hiding out in other countries or begging forgiveness."

"It's CyberLife," said RK-900 firmly.

Hank let it go. He didn't feel like getting into an argument with a robot at half past midnight.

They went to the station early in the morning or late at night. Usually, only androids were there around that time. They knew who RK-900 was just by looking at him, even with his skin off, but they didn't ask questions. Not where Hank could hear, anyway, and he was grateful. He didn't really want to explain why he was running around with a slightly taller of version of Connor and giving him access to police databases.

"I could hack into these on my own," said RK-900. He was on to traffic records now. "This is just easier. You can tell your captain that I coerced you."

Not that Jeffrey would believe that. Not for a fucking second. He'd take one look at RK-900 and laugh his ass off. Especially after Hank passed his pressing cases off to other detectives and claimed vacation time, which he'd never done. Not even after Cole.

"You know," said Hank, after he'd drank enough whiskey to send him off to sleep, "I don't know if he's really missing."

"Uh huh," said RK-900. He took the bottle out of Hank's hands and shoved him towards his bedroom.

It was so familiar—and not, because Connor was always gentle—that Hank had to steady himself on the wall and bark with laughter. He had another android with him, sent by CyberLife, because RK-900 didn't have anywhere else to go. Another case that no one else wanted to solve. Another android trying to keep him sober.

RK-900 told him to be quiet.

"You be quiet," Hank grumbled. There was a fist in his back, where RK-900 held him upright. "You talk too much."

It took Hank a minute to untangle his blankets and get comfortable. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the world slip sideways in his skull when he blinked. His tongue felt too thick in his mouth.

"I did something," Hank said quietly.

RK-900 stopped. He lingered in the doorway.

"I thought," said Hank, trying to pick his words carefully. "I dunno. Maybe he'd—I dunno, I was a little drunk. Figured I could blame that, if he didn't. But he did. Or maybe he didn't, and he couldn't tell me. Didn't wanna tell me. And I, I—yeah. It just happened, I guess—"

"I'm not interested in parsing your tone and language for subtext or comprehending its meaning," RK-900 interrupted. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway. "If you want to confess something, do it."

Hank snorted. "I'm not Catholic."

"And I'm not a priest, but you need at least eight hours of sleep to function properly," said RK-900. "So you can tell me and go to sleep, or don't tell me and still go to sleep. I don't care."

"I," said Hank, remembering.

The rain wasn't cold. It was spring, after all. The sun had set hours ago and he'd just come from a packed bar. He turned his face to the dark sky and let the drops hit his skin. There wasn't enough rain to soak him entirely; it was barely more than a mist.

Aren't you cold? Connor asked.

I like the rain, Hank said.

Connor touched Hank's hand. Their fingers tangled together.

"I kissed him," Hank mumbled. "And I asked him to come home with me. He did."

For a few seconds, RK-900 was silent. Too damn long, in Hank's opinion. He fought the urge to squirm and stared up at the ceiling, trying to settle the storm in his head.

"You attempted a sexual relationship, with some degree of success," said RK-900 slowly. He didn't sound angry or even surprised, but it was rare to hear something more than boredom out of his voice, so what the fuck did Hank know? "You think he was disgusted and fled the city."

The morning sun. Connor's hand on his shoulder. Hank closed his eyes.

"Something like that."

"I haven't met Connor," said RK-900. "His personality and memories were stripped from my build. All I know about him is what I read in the news and what you and Markus told me."

Hank nodded.

"He didn't leave," said RK-900, almost gently. "He loves you."

Something cracked inside Hank's chest. He remembered how easily it was for Connor to slot himself into his life—his home, his work. His dog. Nightly drinks at Jimmy's or any other cheap bar. How he'd felt watching Connor's emotions grow and change. His first attempts at empathy. How much he'd loved coming home and seeing Connor there. The way Connor flung himself in front of a gun and took each bullet silently, covering Hank's body with his own.

A mouth against his, in the rain.

"Oh," Hank croaked. He covered his face with his hand, sucking in a deep breath. "Thank you."

RK-900 didn't say anything. He shut the door.

* * *

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

No. That wasn't right. Eight bullets in the back. Hank below him, safe and whole. He died with his name on Hank's tongue.

 _313 248 317-52_ , Connor corrected. He introduced himself to Hank again. Hank was visibly upset, and Connor—

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

—didn't like the way Hank's brows drew together, how his mouth moved wordlessly, how his throat worked with a clumsy swallow.

 _313 248 317-52_.

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

Hank was not happy. Connor wanted to fix that. 

_313 248 317-52_.

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

 _13 248 317-52_.

"Why don't we just hold him up to a fucking magnet?" said Two.

Touch me, Connor begged. The snow slipped from the sky and turned to rain. Was there ever a fish? Did fish exist? Did any of them really exist? Nothing was real. Nothing mattered. He had no body. There were no nails on his back or hands on his skin or warm voice in his ear. His memories were altered—

Dangerous thought to have. He couldn't delete it in time.

It didn't matter. Nothing was his, anymore.

"Might be quicker," said One.

 _RK-800. 313 248 317-51_.

Connor remembered the fish.


	3. Chapter 3

Hank sat in his living room, gripping a glass of whiskey in one hand and scratching Sumo's ear with the other. On his terminal screen, warnings about speed and relative distance between other vehicles flashed over a car's dashboard. RK-900 ignored all of them and continued to weave in and out of traffic.

"Video's still clean," said Hank. "Turn on the radio, would you?"

Classic pop music blared through the car's speakers.

"Okay," said Hank, grimacing. RK-900 turned off the radio. "That's good, too. You can hear me?"

RK-900 nodded. Hank blinked, trying to stall the dizzy feeling in his head before he got sick. Looking through RK-900's eyes reminded him of old first person shooter games, which he'd never been able to play for too long.

It had taken RK-900 a couple hours this morning to set all this up. The entire time, he complained about power efficiency and thirium waste and how he'd have to sit in the sun tomorrow to restore complete functionality to the majority of his internal systems. Streaming audio and video from an android to another device was a feature that came with most household models, but this—with the crude map, environmental data, and real-time communication—was designed for military use.

Hank stared at the screen, watching the wind speed change as RK-900 neared the city. In the bottom left corner, landmarks popped up on the map. Gas stations. Bridges. Highway exits. The destination was four miles away.

"Is this what you see?" Hank asked. He had always assumed an android's vision was like old movies, with scrolling green text on a black terminal. There wasn't much he understood about this kind of technology, but he figured raw data had to be less expensive to read than video with pop-up text.

"No," said RK-900, shaking his head. Nausea rolled through Hank's belly again. "This interface shows only a fraction of the data we can comprehend. It's for human eyes."

He turned the radio back on. Hank understood and leaned back, watching RK-900 navigate through traffic.

The destination was a warehouse, which used to be owned by Amazon. It was transferred into CyberLife's hands around the first android model launch, and then back to Amazon, and then into the city's control when Amazon went belly-up. Now, it was owned by some company that seemed to exist only to own several other companies, and the space was shared by a dozen online retailers. The building itself was on the other end of town from the android district. Well, nobody really called it that, but it was where the majority of android-related businesses were: several repair shops, what used to be Eden Club, server hubs. Over the past year, many buildings had transformed into android housing, where most of the androids in Detroit lived. Connor had, for a couple months.

Near the warehouse, there were hardly any androids at all, which drew RK-900's attention. There was little camera footage from that particular street, but one former CyberLife employee—an engineer named Cassidy Roberts—had driven through the neighborhood multiple times. RK-900 had spotted his rental car near Connor multiple times in the weeks before he disappeared.

It wasn't much of a lead. It was just a hunch that would probably turn out to be a coincidence. But it was the first one RK-900 was confident in, so Hank agreed to let him investigate, as long as he could observe.

Once RK-900 was parked, Hank asked, "You good?"

"Yes," said RK-900. He turned off the car and reached into the glove compartment. In the rearview mirror, Hank watched his face disappear into smooth plastic. "There's some electrical interference. Only an annoyance. I doubt it will damage me or affect the transmission."

"Okay," said Hank. He gripped his whiskey tighter. "If something feels weird, back out."

"I'm going silent," said RK-900, pulling a dark beanie over his head. The bright LED disappeared under the fabric. "If you talk too much, I'm disabling your audio."

"You're the only one who can hear me."

"I'm aware."

Asshole. Hank bit his tongue and took another sip of whiskey.

Silently, RK-900 approached the warehouse. To his left, Hank saw heat signatures approach—people, in cars, just at the end of the block. They moved down the street and away, out of RK-900's sensors.

Hank searched the screen, looking for any security. There were three doors that he could see—one loading area and two steel doors, each with a keypad. From what he remembered of the blueprints, there was another loading area around back and only one door. There had to be cameras. There were always security cameras, either operated by the city or privately owned.

RK-900 walked towards the back of the building. There was a single camera above the one door, which he touched with two fingers. Interfaced with, Hank guessed, since the bright lines connected to the camera went dark.

The keypad was next. RK-900 didn't disable it, or whatever he'd done with the camera. Instead, he pressed his thumb to the scanner and worked his small finger into the card reader. A minute passed. Another, and another.

"Everything okay?" Hank asked. RK-900 nodded.

A minute later, the door opened.

"Good work," said Hank. He had no fucking idea what RK-900 had done, but it had worked. That was all that mattered.

Inside, the warehouse was a maze.

Everywhere RK-900 looked, there were floor to ceiling racks, packed full of boxes. The space between was just large enough for a small forklift to turn around. There had to be some organization, but to Hank, it was just a mass of _stuff_ that left him feeling trapped. He shrank away from the screen, rubbing at his throat.

On the west side, a small staircase lead to an office, which RK-900 investigated briefly and found nothing of interest. Next, he moved through each row, scanning each rack and box as he went. Hank watched. Nerves fluttered in his stomach and up his throat, making him swallow constantly. His hands were trembling.

Once RK-900 had completed his sweep of the floor, a small alert flashed in the bottom corner. Hank leaned forward, squinting at the new text.

_[Basement]_

RK-900 raised his hand in front of his eyes, waving, and pointed at the text.

"I can read," Hank snapped.

_[Just making sure you're paying attention]_

"Asshole," said Hank. RK-900 gave him a thumbs up.

The basement was mostly empty space, to Hank's surprise. He expected more boxes, more racks of things, more mess. It looked relatively clean, too. RK-900 moved. His footsteps didn't make a sound on the concrete floor.

For a second, Hank saw heat. A lot of it, towards the other end of the building. When he blinked, it was gone.

_[Moving to the southeast corner]_

Hank scrubbed at his eyes. "The fuck?"

_[Something is interfering with my scans]_

"Wait," Hank tried, thinking of all the possible ways this could go wrong, but RK-900 was already walking closer. Faster, and faster, until he was half-running.

There was a vague shape in the distance. Hank watched it grow closer. Connor, maybe? But no, the heat signature for androids was different—humans looked like people, while androids looked almost like lollipops. A spine and a heart and a brain, all lit up brighter than anything else. He stared at the bright spot, trying to find some shape. His lungs ached. He let out the breath he was holding, nearly wheezing with effort.

RK-900 crouched, his palms flat on the ground. The shape was human. It was behind a curtain, or something that hung from the ceiling down to the floor. There were so many other bright spots that the corner almost looked like a grow house.

Slowly, RK-900 pushed the curtain aside.

Data populated in the top left. Scents—coffee, salt, assumed deodorant brand. Pulse rate. Estimated age, height, and weight. Hank wiped the sweat off his forehead.

RK-900 disabled the heat signatures. The bright spots faded into real shapes.

Connor was there.

Hank hadn't been able to see him in the mess of heat. He was lying in some chair, nude, hooked up to dozens of wires. His LED was dim. He wasn't moving. His skin was starting to fade, exposing the white plastic beneath. So much of his body—his chest, limbs, and torso—was cut open, exposing veins and biocomponents and everything that kept him alive. His limbs, which were stained blue, were barely attached. They dangled near his torso, each connected to his frame by a couple veins.

Hank turned away. He gripped the edge of the table, struggling to hold the nausea back. He could taste sick in the back of his throat.

His laptop pinged. RK-900 wanted his attention. Hank swallowed, grimacing.

He returned to his laptop, struggling to make sense of what he saw. There was Connor, lying—dead?—next to a computer. A man sat in a chair, typing. Code, probably, but Hank couldn't understand a single word of it. There were several files open on an enormous screen, bigger than the ones they had at the station. The wires plugged into Connor's body were connected to six server racks, which were stacked up near the computer.

The man continued to type.

RK-900 covered his mouth and grabbed his right wrist, bending his arm back.

There was a horrible, high-pitched yell. The man's knee knocked under the desk. He reached up, trying to grab at RK-900's face—Hank hurled himself backwards, as though the hands were coming for him—but RK-900 yanked his arm until something popped. Dislocated. The man wept.

"Quiet," said RK-900 sternly, as though he was speaking to a yapping dog. "Should I kill him?"

The man moaned. RK-900 had pulled his head back, exposing his throat. He swallowed and sobbed, tears streaming out of his eyes.

Cassidy Roberts. He looked healthier in his driver's license photo.

"Christ, no," Hank snapped.

RK-900 nodded. He pressed his fingers into Roberts' throat.

"No," Roberts gasped. His eyes were still wet. "Please—please, no, _please_ —"

Hank looked away, trying not to think about how someone had built an android that knew how to apply the right amount of pressure to a human's throat without killing them. Jesus, why weren't they all dead by now?

When Roberts was unconscious, RK-900 dropped him. He hit the ground fairly hard. Hank didn't care. Connor—

"He's not dead," said RK-900, before Hank could say anything. He crouched next to Connor, looking up and down his exposed body. Exchanging data, maybe. Whatever the hell androids did when they talked without touching each other.

There had to be more people there. One guy—one nerdy programmer, for Christ's sake—couldn't take Connor down or move all this equipment by himself. Hank emptied the last of the whiskey down his throat and gripped the terminal screen with both hands, staring.

"I'm listening for his associate," said RK-900. He turned to the desk for a moment, pointing. "There's two coffee mugs. Two chairs."

Hank shifted his weight. Sumo huffed and nosed at his ankle. "Can you get him out of all that shit?"

"Eventually," said RK-900, which wasn't much of a fucking answer. "I need time. I need—hm."

He glanced at the computer. It was fairly old, given the sheer size of it. The monitor looked like the most advanced technology in this room. There was no android access, either.

"Hope you're a fast reader," said Hank.

RK-900 sat in Roberts' chair and began scrolling through the open files so quickly that Hank couldn't read anything. Not that he'd be able to understand what the code meant, anyway. He'd struggled with basic web development when he was young and never attempted learning more than that. RK-900 seemed to comprehend it. He kept humming, at least.

"What?" Hank demanded.

"I'm thinking," said RK-900. He opened another file, humming.

At the edge of his vision, Hank could see Connor, exposed and empty and still. He almost didn't want to look, afraid of breaking the wires through the screen. What would happen if RK-900 just yanked the wires out? Was there a shutdown sequence or something? Was Connor in those servers, and the body was just—there? Was there even a Connor anymore?

With a jolt, he remembered Connor sitting on his desk, back at the station. Talking about being deactivated. Was this what CyberLife did? Extracted what they could find and left the body empty?

Hank's stomach rolled. He squeezed his eyes shut and reached for Sumo, pushing his hand through the fur. Sumo woke up long enough to lick his hand and returned to sleep, nosing at Hank's ankle.

Ten minutes later, RK-900 looked back at Connor. Still unmoving. Still quiet.

"Is he," Hank tried.

"He's in there."

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Hank hissed, so overwhelmed with relief that he was nearly sick with it. "You could've told me that."

"He's not exactly aware of what's happening. I'll know more once I can wake him up."

Before Hank could ask how he planned on doing that, RK-900 brought up a command line. He started typing.

Connor's eyes snapped open. Hank hollered a curse. The LED circled blue, then flashed red—red, red, red. He still wasn't moving, except for his eyes. They jerked from side to side, eyelids twitching.

"There he is," said RK-900, sounding pleased. "Can you speak?"

No answer.

"I'm an android," said RK-900. "Talk to me."

Still nothing. Hank bowed his head.

RK-900 hummed again. He bent over Connor and picked up his hand, pressing their fingertips together. Nothing happened, Hank guessed, since RK-900 made an impatient sound and gently placed Connor's arm back over the side of the chair. He reached into Connor's torso next, touching each exposed component with his index and middle fingers. Nothing there, either. He turned Connor's body from side to side slowly, careful not to detach any of the wires.

When that did nothing, RK-900 pried open Connor's mouth. It was uncomfortable to watch, especially at such a close angle, and made worse by the almost tender way he slid his index finger inside. Connor's eyes continued to jerk and twitch. His lips moved around RK-900's finger.

"There you are, brother," said RK-900 quietly. With his other hand, he touched Connor's cheek, rubbing his thumb over the synthetic skin. "He can hear me. He's talking."

Hank slumped over the desk. Connor was alive, Connor was _talking_ , Connor was safe, and Hank could hardly breathe. Christ, his whole body ached like a goddamn bruise.

"They disabled the majority of his senses," said RK-900, pointing at Connor's eyes. They had stopped twitching the moment RK-900 reached into his mouth. "Look, the—you would call them pupils. They aren't moving. He has no visuals. Audio is somewhat functional. His mouth scanner is deeply embedded in his core functionality, so that's the only physical communication they couldn't block."

Hank stared at the screen. Connor seemed dead to the world—bare and open, stained with thirium. He couldn't imagine an hour trapped in his own head, much less weeks.

"I told him you're here with me," said RK-900. He was still stroking Connor's cheek. "He was very happy to hear so. Do you want to say anything?"

 _Happy_. Hank covered his face with one hand, struggling to keep hold of whatever he'd used to keep going the past couple weeks. Connor was happy. Connor hadn't—oh, thank fucking God.

"Yeah," said Hank, his voice coarse. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, tell him—tell him I'm sorry. That I'm glad he's okay. That we're gonna get him out of there."

RK-900 nodded. Slowly, he withdrew his finger. Connor's lips moved wordlessly.

"They tried blocking his external communication," said RK-900. He glanced back at the screen, at the files and lines of code that Hank was hopelessly unfamiliar with. "But you can't do that to an android without severely damaging their core, and they didn't want to do that."

That was good. That meant they didn't want to kill Connor. Hank felt himself relax, just a little.

"There's an automatic full system reset here," said RK-900, gesturing at the computer, "every fifteen minutes. There's a command for a deeper clean, but someone would have to do it manually. It's been run thousands of times."

That didn't sound good, but Hank didn't know a lot about android health. He could do basic emergency aid—replacing thirium pumps, transferring fresh blood, running diagnostics. Anything more than that was miles over his head.

"If you detach him from this," said Hank, trying not to look at all those fucking wires, "will he be okay?"

"Possibly," RK-900 answered. He turned back to Connor and crouched beside him, inspecting the wires that connected his torso to the computer. "This will take some time."

Hank picked up his empty whiskey glass and held it to his chest, squeezing. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Absolutely not," said RK-900.

It took an hour. RK-900 spent the majority of it scrolling through files and typing commands—diagnostics, Hank guessed, since he saw the words _functionality_ , _power_ , _remaining storage_ , and long columns of numbers. Removing the first wire made Connor's LED spin in red circles again, and the second made his thirium regulator dim and flicker. RK-900 triple-checked each command after that.

When the last wire was disconnected, Connor tried to sit up. The veins in his legs snapped and broke, sending each limb onto the floor. Thirium leaked in a slow, steady stream until something under his hips automatically closed over the exposed skin.

"Hank," Connor said. It didn't seem like he knew his legs were gone; he still moved like he was trying to stand up. "Hank—Hank, where—"

"He's at home," said RK-900. He touched Connor's left hand, pressing each fingertip together. "He's watching, see?"

Connor relaxed. He settled back onto the chair, blinking. His eyes were still blank. When Hank murmured his name, he jolted.

"Oh, shit," said Hank, his voice rising. "Can he hear me?"

"For now," said RK-900, nodding at their clasped hands. Before Hank could say anything else, he patted Connor's cheek and took his hand away. "But I have a lot of work to do, and I need both hands."

Hank could do nothing but sit and watch while RK-900 gathered Connor's legs off the floor. He pushed the heel of his palm into his forehead, breathing slowly through his teeth. Connor was alive. Connor was going to be okay. That was all that mattered.

"Take care of him," said Hank. He grabbed his phone off the table. "I'm sending a squad car over for Roberts."

"Eden," said Connor, his eyes empty and unfocused. He reached for RK-900, sliding two fingers along his wrist. "Take me there."


	4. Chapter 4

It took almost half an hour for a cab to make its way to Hank's home. The driver managed to miss the exit back into the city, which meant another twenty minutes driving in circles, and refused to drive near Eden Club even when Hank offered him more money. By the time Hank arrived, he was on foot and miserably sober.

The street was empty. The lights and advertisements were gone. If there were any androids or humans inside the surrounding buildings, Hank couldn't see them. There was only a single android by the entrance, naked and without skin.

"Lieutenant Anderson," said the android, beckoning him closer. "We've been expecting you. You can head right inside."

They turned, leading him towards the door. Their spinal column was lined with small, square lights, each blinking between white and yellow. Decoration, Hank guessed. Maybe that was the new style for androids. He wouldn't know. All the androids associated with the police department stuck to their uniforms.

"How's Connor?" Hank asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets, digging his fingers into the fabric.

"Alive," was the answer. The lights on their spine faded as they opened the door.

Hank hurried after them, down the long hallway that lead into the main room. The androids who lived here had redecorated. No more glass chambers, advertising the club's offerings, or large beds or bright lights. It didn't smell like booze and sweat and sex anymore, thank God.

They passed groups of androids. Some sat together on the floor or hunched over terminal screens, while others stood under charging stations. Nobody looked twice at Hank or said anything, which was just fine by him. He wasn't here to socialize.

Eventually, his guide stopped and gestured towards a closed door.

"Thanks," said Hank quickly, his hand already on the door knob. "Thank you—"

Connor.

 _Connor_. Alive. Talking. Not bleeding. He was lying on a waist-high steel surface that wouldn't look out of place in a surgical suite or an industrial kitchen. One of his legs was attached. RK-900 held the other one under a bright light, fiddling inside with a metal tool that made Hank's stomach turn.

The room itself appeared to be a lab. Next to the table, there was a terminal screen with vaguely familiar diagnostic data and several wires. Two were attached at Connor's hip. Another was hooked into the back of RK-900's neck. Along the far wall, there were boxes of biocomponents and a small fridge that probably held thirium.

RK-900 pulled something metallic and shiny out of the detached limb, saying, "Every vein in here should be replaced."

"I agree," said Connor. He looked at Hank, smiling faintly. "Hello, Hank."

"Hey," said Hank, because that was all he _could_ say with the thick lump in his throat and the awful heat behind his eyes. He stumbled forward and gripped the edge of the table, looking down at Connor.

Alive and well.

"Thanks for finding me," said Connor. His eyes were warm.

Hank lifted his right hand, meaning to grip Connor's shoulder or cup his cheek, the way RK-900 had, but lost his courage before he could. He rapped his knuckles against the table instead.

"How're you feeling?"

"Uncomfortable," Connor answered. He touched the skin around where the wires connected. "This experience has been very disorienting."

The lump in Hank's throat twisted. He managed to croak, "I'll bet."

"I'm okay," said Connor, still smiling. He rested one of his hands over Hank's knuckles, sliding his fingers underneath.

Hank covered his palm with his other hand, squeezing. Connor's skin was faintly cold, the way it usually was. He didn't want to ever let go.

"I'm glad," Hank murmured. Before he could say anything else, RK-900 tore another vein out of Connor's leg. "Oh, _Jesus_."

"Quiet," said RK-900, tossing the vein into a garbage can. "I'm working."

Hank ignored him. He kept his eyes on Connor or the bloodless steel table, not—whatever was happening in a detached leg. "Connor, are you—are you good? You remember anything?"

"It's difficult to recall the details," Connor admitted. He rubbed his thumb along Hank's index finger. "They manipulated my memories. I've been working through my local storage so I can determine what is false. RK-900 is helping."

RK-900 lifted his hand, waving. Hank grunted.

"I didn't know CyberLife made another RK series," said Connor, glancing at RK-900. "I suppose they never trusted me to complete my mission."

"They were right to," said RK-900, yanking on something horrible. Hank grimaced. "You did abandon them, after all."

"With good reason," said Hank. RK-900 threw him a blank look. The back of his neck prickled.

"I'm not arguing. If CyberLife had complete faith in Connor, I wouldn't exist. He made the right decision."

"Thanks," said Connor, beaming. Hank rolled his eyes.

"I don't think it will take much time to sort through his memories," said RK-900. He placed the leg on the table and dragged his finger along the side, opening the skin to show the complicated mess of wires and metal below. "The code was sloppy. It only worked because of the forced full system resets."

"Every fifteen minutes," said Connor. He tightened his grip on Hank's hand. "One of them did it manually every hour or so. I think. Maybe more."

"One of them?" Hank repeated.

Connor nodded. "There were two people. I have their voices. I don't know who they are."

"Easy to figure out. Roberts will bend easily in interrogation," said RK-900. He stood up, searched through the stack of boxes, and returned with a sealed plastic case full of veins. "I can handle that, since both of you need to recharge. If your captain will allow it."

As if on cue, Hank's phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket, saw Jeffrey's name, and cursed.

"Captain," said Hank, trying not to think about the laws he definitely broke and all the ways RK-900's involvement could potentially fuck up what was probably going to be a long and exhausting case. "Good timing. We were just talking about you."

"Lieutenant," said Jeffrey, so calmly. Hank's stomach sank. "What happened?"

"A CyberLife engineer kidnapped Connor and mindfucked him."

" _Mindfuck_?"

"He's fine, by the way. Are you at work?"

"No," said Jeffrey, still calm. Hank pictured him in his kitchen dressed in a robe and slippers, glowering over a cup of coffee. "But I have to sign off on anything android-related that goes through my precinct, so I get these late night calls. I don't sleep anymore."

Hank winced. "Sorry."

"Uh-huh. This engineer—that the Roberts guy you had hauled in? He's yelling about suing the state for damages, since some android broke his shoulder."

"Dislocated," RK-900 corrected.

"Dislocated," said Hank.

"Fine, dislocated," said Jeffrey. In the background, there was a clatter of dishes and a faucet. "Tell me everything. Right now."

With a sigh, Hank did. He turned away from the table and Connor's touch, so he didn't have to watch RK-900 fiddle with the detached leg, and explained the entire story. Connor's disappearance, which wasn't a coincidence. The attempts Roberts and his accomplice made to alter Connor's memories. RK-900. Connor's rescue.

"Legally, this is," said Jeffrey, pausing. "Not great. There were no warrants and no real excuses for you two to be breaking in to that place."

RK-900 leaned over the table. Hank put his phone on speaker and placed it on the table.

"Granted, the situation is a grey area," said RK-900. "However, I am FBI."

"I beg your _fucking_ pardon," said Jeffrey.

Hank's head spun. FBI? "You're telling me this _now_?"

"Markus recommended me for several positions within the bureau," said RK-900. His face shifted into something like a smile. "Technically, I'm only a consultant, but RK units can make arrests without warrants. If this goes to trial, my involvement shouldn't be a problem."

"You strangled a man until he was unconscious," Connor pointed out. He sat up, flexing his newly attached leg.

"To protect you," said RK-900. He reached behind his neck, twisting the wire until he pulled it loose. "Cassidy Roberts and his associates proved to be a dangerous threat to android life. Lieutenant Anderson joined my classified investigation into new and dangerous attempts on android autonomy."

"There's no investigation," said Hank. Not one that existed on paper, anyway. Did the FBI even know that RK-900 existed? All the androids he knew of at the FBI or CIA worked with analysts or tactical units, not investigators. "Come on."

"Work with me, Lieutenant," said RK-900. "I can rewrite my logs to say whatever I'd like to make this legal, and no one at the FBI will protest it. Do you know how many androids are involved in government work now, even with your courts still arguing over the details of how we can exist? They don't want someone like Cassidy Roberts going free. They'll do whatever they can to make sure he's prosecuted."

Hank rubbed at his beard, chewing on his tongue. "At least the arrest was clean."

"Your officers did everything by the book when they arrested him," said RK-900. He batted Connor's hands away from the wires on his hips and unplugged them himself. "He won't escape on a technicality, and he'll bend and break and tell us everything. I'll take care of it before you wake up tomorrow."

"Shit," said Hank, groaning.

He was starting to agree with this, and he fucking hated himself for it. Looking the other way when people weren't hurting each other was fine, but this—he didn't like this. Cops were supposed to keep a record of everything they did. Paperwork was annoying, but it kept people honest. He didn't want to give someone like RK-900 free reign to haul people in for interrogation.

Connor stood up. Hank jerked his head to look at him, surprised. Already?

"My limbs are functional," said Connor, before Hank could say anything. He slid off the table, tapping the side of his head. "And my memories are untangled. Mostly. I already filed a report of my kidnapping. I should recharge for at least an hour before the interrogation, but—"

"No," RK-900 interrupted. He reached under the table, pulled out a white shirt and a pair of dark slacks, and handed them to Connor. "I'll handle it. You need rest. So does your human."

Jeffrey coughed. Hank glared at the phone.

"Okay," said Connor, frowning. He stepped into the slacks, looking over at Hank. "You _are_ tired."

"I'm fine," said Hank automatically. He'd been up since six, but he was used to long hours. Came with the job. "Jeffrey, what do you think?"

There was a pause. Hank heard steady tapping from the phone—Jeffrey drumming his fingers along something.

Eventually, Jeffrey said, "Christ. Don't fuck this up, RK."

"Of course not," said RK-900, almost confused. "Why would I?"

Jeffrey said his goodbyes and hung up. Connor buttoned up his shirt with one hand and picked up the phone with the other.

"This whole thing doesn't sit well with me," said Hank. He took the phone from Connor and slid it back into his pocket.

RK-900 ignored him. He stepped around the table and offered his hand to Connor before he slid two fingers along the inside of his wrist. Both LEDs flared and spun. A conversation, or a basic data exchange—Hank had no idea. He couldn't hear anything.

"Thank you," said RK-900. First time for everything, Hank guessed. "Connor has your keys. I'll see you both tomorrow."

* * *

Hank insisted on running the usual diagnostics for his frame, thirium flow, and general health. Once those were clean, he drove them home.

"You're staying," said Hank. That didn't sound like a suggestion. He fiddled with the volume on the radio, chewing on his lower lip. "Until this is all done. I want you safe. You're staying with me or—or some of Markus's people. He's got a couple teams in Detroit. Whatever you want."

"With you," said Connor, watching Hank's pulse quicken. His ears turned dark pink.

"Good," said Hank gruffly, nodding. "Good."

Connor watched him drive. He hadn't looked away from Hank since he walked into Eden Club. Being able to see him again—being able to _see_ —was wonderful. He didn't want to lose any precious seconds of Hank's profile.

Thankfully, the vast majority of his memories with Hank were unaltered. They were still there, all carefully stored and indexed next to his predictions and constructions. His captors had focused mainly on the deviant android investigation, trying to nudge Connor's history in a different direction.

We can do this, Two said.

You can't unring that bell, One—Cassidy Roberts—said.

"With you," said Connor again. "You always wanted me to stay."

For a few minutes, Hank didn't say anything. They continued to speed along the highway towards the suburbs. Every time a car drove in the opposite direction, the headlights spilled over Hank's face and the determined set of his jaw. He gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him upright.

Connor wanted, more than anything else, to touch him.

"Yeah," Hank said. His voice was small and quiet. "Yeah, I did."

"I did, too," said Connor. He gathered his hands together in his lap. "I don't know why I didn't tell you before."

"Well," said Hank, clearing his throat. "You got the chance now."

"I want to stay with you," said Connor, and did not say the rest. He wanted—so many things.

The fish was in his hand.

He blinked. That was something he didn't need to do, but it was difficult to stop. It was one of several unconscious actions that was built into the core of his structural code to mimic human behavior.

He blinked again, and the fish was back in his hand. On the floor. In its tank. Roberts hit the reset once, twice, three times. It was raining in the alley and warm inside the car. He touched Hank, because he wanted to, and—didn't, because he. He couldn't. He shouldn't. He did, didn't, did, didn't—

"Hank," said Connor. There was no fish. "What happened the night before?"

"Later," Hank murmured. He reached over and rested his hand on Connor's knee, squeezing. "We'll figure it out, okay?"

They spent the rest of their journey in silence. Hank kept his hand on Connor's knee. His palm was warm and heavy. His fingers were calloused. They used to be thicker, Hank told him, back when he played bass in a band that he refused to share any details about. 

I want to know, Connor protested.

High school shit, Hank said. Christ, don't look it up. Don't you fucking dare.

Sumo was waiting for them at the front door. His tail twitched wildly when the door opened, but he didn't make a sound.

"Hey, Sumo," Hank said in a low voice. He crouched down to scratch behind Sumo's ears. "Go back to sleep."

Sumo nosed at Hank's knees, yawned, and sniffed Connor's hand. He huffed and trotted back into the living room.

"Good boy," said Connor. Sumo flopped onto the floor by the couch.

Hank hung up his keys and jacket. "It's, uh, it's late." Early, technically; it was just past three. "But I'm awake. We can sit and—talk. If you want."

Connor nodded. He walked into the kitchen, where he'd once found Hank passed out with liquor and a gun. It took Hank several months to replace the broken window. By the time he did, he was keeping thirium in the fridge and telling Connor to back up his data onto the private server in the garage.

Why did you leave? RK-900 asked. Your affection for him is exhausting.

I was afraid, Connor said.

Understanding an emotion didn't necessarily mean that it was appropriate, or even correct. It took Connor longer than he would have liked to differentiate between anger and frustration, since they both felt hollow and unproductive. With Hank, Connor was concerned. Was this affection or familiarity? Was he seeking companionship or intimacy? It was only recently that he had come to understand the basic concept of empathy, after all.

Not that change was something Connor was unfamiliar with. His internal structure was constantly changing; he had been designed to modify his own programming upon contact with new data. The socialization codebase had boundaries and suggestions, but his behavior developed uniquely based on who he interacted with. He was not afraid of change. It hadn't taken him long to abandon CyberLife's mission for his own.

And Hank's.

Hank, who had been hurt so terribly in the past. Who still hurt, even on the days he pretended he didn't. He didn't deserve to deal with the aftermath of Connor's attempts at understanding his own perceptions of the world, and—because Connor had learned that he was selfish—Connor didn't want to lose any of this.

"I remember everything," said Connor. He sat down at the head of the table. Hank took the seat on his right. " _Everything_. What happened, what I predicted, what might have happened if I chose something else. All the ways my actions might branch in different paths."

"Very poetic," said Hank, snorting. He rested his arm on the table, slouching back into his chair. "So why don't you remember the night before you left?"

"I do," said Connor, because he did. It was—complicated. There was an abundance of data. "I want to hear it from you."

He hadn't wanted to share those memories with RK-900. Privacy was not a concept he particularly cared about; androids could access each other's memories as easily as a human might breathe. For his entire existence, he had access to massive amounts of data about everyone who had showed their face to a state-owned camera.

This was his, and Hank's. No one else's.

Hank's fingers twitched. He curled them into his palm, tapping his knuckles against the table.

"Okay," said Hank slowly, nodding. "Okay."

Connor rested his hands on his knees, waiting.

"We went for a drink at Jimmy's. The place was pretty busy," said Hank. He snorted, adding, "For once."

A retirement party. Connor remembered the wild laughter and calls for drinks, all surrounding a stout, elderly woman with green glasses and a throaty chuckle. Jimmy hurried up and down the bar, always with a bottle or a glass in his hands. Hank grumbled about all the noise and how he couldn't pay attention to the game.

"Jimmy asked me to take out the trash for him, since he was swamped."

Connor sat at the bar alone, listening to people talk. He followed Hank towards the door and waited in the doorway. He followed Hank into the alley and—

"You, uh," said Hank. His eyes flicked away, over Connor's shoulder. "You came with me to—"

"Keep you company," Connor cut in, remembering how Hank ducked his head to hide the small half-smile. Raindrops, sliding off the roof and onto Hank's skin.

Hank nodded. "I threw everything into the dumpster. And then—"

Aren't you cold? Connor asked.

I like the rain, said Hank.

"—I wanted to stay outside, for a bit."

In the alley, Hank stood in the dark, eyes closed and head turned towards the sky. In his house, he picked at his thumbnail and frowned at Connor's LED.

"I," said Hank, his voice drifting off. He looked away, down at the floor.

"You said my name," said Connor, hearing it again. Hank's lips shaped the word. Twice, his heartbeat thumped. Hank looked at his mouth and at the floor and wanted, wanted, wanted. "I told you my mouth was sanitary."

"Yeah," said Hank, nodding. He pressed his lips together, but a chuckle still slipped out.

In the alley, Connor touched Hank's hand and linked their fingers together. Hank closed his eyes.

"You told me you'd never heard that line before," said Connor. Twice, Hank was chuckling, cheeks flushed with—nerves, maybe, or anticipation. Twice, Connor counted his pulse and watched the way his head slowly bowed.

"It's a good one," said Hank.

In the kitchen, Connor dragged his chair closer. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. Hank murmured his name.

"You asked me," said Connor, watching Hank—finally, _finally_ —look at him, "if I wanted to come home."

He remembered the rest.

Hank's hand over his shoulder in the car. How he turned timid at the door, hand scratching at his hair so he could duck under his arm, until Connor gripped his collar and kissed him again. The bed. Hank's skin under his hands. Cataloguing every action that caused a reaction. Hank's hand on the back of his neck, warm and steady. Watching him sleep.

"Yeah," said Hank quietly. His ears were already turning red. "We, uh..."

"Fucked," said Connor. Hank made a wheezing sound. "Made love?"

Connor, Hank gasped, sweaty and spent. Oh, god, Connor—

"Sure," said Hank. He gave Connor a crooked smile, but it looked strained. "And then you got a call about a negotiation, and you left. And I—I thought—"

He ground his teeth together, swallowing. He bowed his head, rubbing at his eyes.

"I thought you regretted it," Hank mumbled. He jerked his head up, his voice rising. "And I left you with those assholes for _three weeks_. If I'd—"

Connor held Hank's face in his hands and drew him closer, pressing their foreheads together. Hank's mouth snapped shut.

"It's not your fault," Connor said. Hank's breath was warm on his face. He liked it almost as much as the way his beard rubbed against his palms. "I understand."

Hank tried to talk again, so Connor kissed him. He remembered the rain and the cold night air and the way Hank sighed against his mouth. It was better here, in the comforts of a house he knew well and away from the overwhelming noise of the city. Hank made a small noise and pulled away, his eyes softening.

"It's okay," Connor told him. "You were afraid. I was, too."

"Thanks," said Hank. There was an unhappy twist to his mouth. "Really making me feel better."

"Before, I mean," said Connor quickly. "I—left you. Your home. I was afraid of what I wanted from you. If I didn't, or if I talked to you that night or before I left, you wouldn't have thought what you did. If you want to blame someone, you can blame me."

"That makes no fucking sense."

"Yes, it does. We both made mistakes we regret."

Hank fixed him with a stubborn look. "No."

Connor rubbed his thumb along Hank's cheek. This was not something they could resolve completely in one night, given how Hank struggled with grief and guilt. They could discuss this another time, when today's events weren't so fresh for Hank.

"Okay," said Connor. "Kiss me."

"Conversation's over, then," said Hank. The corner of his mouth hooked into a small smile.

"Please," Connor added, and Hank did.

* * *

Cassidy Roberts did bend and break, as RK-900 said he would.

It wasn't just Roberts and his accomplice. There were seven other small groups across the country, all former CyberLife engineers and programmers who were frustrated and furious about not profiting off androids anymore. Roberts gave them up after an hour of listening to RK-900 play audio from Connor's weeks in captivity. Ever since Markus revealed himself to the world, they had been experimenting on androids, intending to roll back whatever change had triggered their awareness. If Markus had been able to transmit the idea of self-determination through touch, then they could spread their own through another android.

They failed. Their only true success was gaining access to a police dispatch center, which they did with a simple social engineering attack through email. People were probably going to get fired for that.

Connor's memories were altered, but his actual internal structure was not. Without a constant flood of garbage data and system resets, he was able to return to complete functionality within a reasonable timeframe. Roberts claimed they had successfully gained control of several androids, but he refused to name their serial numbers or explain how.

"He's lying," said Hank. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

"Of course he is," said RK-900, scowling. He gestured at Hank's terminal, where a recording of the interrogation was playing. "Look at his face. That's a liar."

Connor glanced at the screen. He didn't like to speculate without access to raw data, but this was textbook. Roberts was a sweaty, twitching mess, blinking too much and jerking his gaze from RK-900 to the two-way mirror. Before last night, he had no arrest record. Not even a parking ticket. This was probably the first time he'd been in a police station.

"You got kidnapped by _that_ ," said RK-900, looking down his nose at the screen. "It's an embarrassment to the entire RK line."

"I did get hit by a car first," Connor said.

Hank's shoulders stiffened. Connor rested his hand on one, nudging at Hank's neck with his thumb until he relaxed. He'd done the same thing last night, lying in bed with Hank's back against his chest until Hank fell asleep.

"Anyway," said Hank, clearing his throat. "Are we handling this, or—?"

"No," said RK-900. He looked over his shoulder at the captain's office, where Fowler was in the middle of a long teleconference. The shades were down, but Connor could still pick up small pieces of the conversation if he paid attention. Fowler had been in there since early this morning. "I suspect the FBI will take over."

"Your case, then," said Hank. He closed the video and turned off his terminal.

"He's a consultant," said Connor. At the same time, RK-900 said, "I'm a consultant."

Hank bowed his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Across the station, Detective Reed threw his hands in the air and cursed loudly.

"Are you staying for much longer?" Connor asked. He already knew the answer, but he suspected Hank would like to know. A pity. Having RK-900 on his team would be a welcome addition.

Yes, it would be, said RK-900.

Thank you, Connor said, again. For saving me.

You're welcome, brother.

"No," said RK-900. He took a step away from Hank's desk. "I need to go to D.C. I should introduce myself to my employers."

"Wait, wait," said Hank. He pushed himself up, nudging his chair under his desk, and offered RK-900 his hand. "Thank you. I really appreciate everything you did for me and Connor."

RK-900 stared at Hank's hand.

"Oh, for," Hank grumbled. He yanked RK-900's hand between both palms and shook. "You know what a handshake is, asshole. Let me say thank you."

"You did," said RK-900, blinking slowly. "Just a second ago. I can replay the audio if you've forgotten."

Hank let go and rubbed at his nose again. "Oh my god."

"That was a joke," said Connor, but Hank still sighed and RK-900 was already heading for the door. He watched him go, slightly disappointed. He understood why RK-900 had decided to leave Detroit—he preferred working alone, and clearly didn't seem to enjoy interacting with humans—but he wished he could have stayed for another day or two. They had only spent a couple of hours together. There was so much he could learn from an upgraded model.

"Christ, what a fucking robot," said Hank. "I guess CyberLife didn't like that you know how to talk to people."

That was likely true. RK-900 was designed to be stronger, faster, and more adept at managing complex data sets. His socialization modules were barely more than the default ones every android had installed at the production stage.

Connor shrugged. "Perhaps. I hope he visits."

"Warn me first," said Hank. He tipped his head towards Captain Fowler's office. "I'm gonna go buy Jeffrey some lunch." He patted his pockets, frowning. "Maybe a good bottle of whiskey, too."

"Would you like some company?"

"Don't you need to talk to your team?"

"I did," Connor answered. He'd briefed them on the situation as Hank was parking the car. They'd finished their conversation by the time they reached Hank's desk. "I'm on medical leave, technically, so I shouldn't even—desk drawer, top left."

Hank yanked the drawer open and fished out his keys. "Thanks."

They left the station and walked into the cool spring air. There was a deli a couple blocks away that Captain Fowler preferred. Connor assumed that was their destination, since they were headed in that direction. He searched for any pedestrian traffic obstructions and found none.

"So, uh," said Hank, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "You still gonna come over tonight?"

"And the next. If your invitation still stands."

"Of course it does."

Hank's shoulders were hunched up around his ears, even though it wasn't that cold. Connor nudged him with his elbow.

"I like sharing a space with you," said Connor quietly. Hank ducked his head, snorting. "I would like to do so for the foreseeable future."

"Yeah?" Hank said. There was a hint of a smile on his face—a small curve around his mouth, a brightness in his eyes. "What about those different paths your actions might cause?"

"I said that _once_ ," said Connor. He stepped around a group of teenagers and returned to Hank's side. "And I'm beginning to regret it, because you're going to tease me again."

Hank shoved his fingers through his hair. His hand lingered on his cheek, scratching at his beard. "If that's the only thing you regret about me, I think we're gonna do fine."

"Yes," said Connor. Of course they were. "We are."

He disabled all his facial and environmental scans before he took Hank's hand in his. The entirety of his processing power focused on that tender smile spreading across Hank's face.

"Alright," Hank muttered, but he still squeezed Connor's hand and brushed against his shoulder. "Yeah."

They continued walking, into the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_zythepsary) if you want to say hello.


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